surprised. Then again, what did he care for peerages? And, if he was right, and had his way, the Earl of Chelfham wouldn’t have to worry about them, either.
“Rather a fountain of possibly useful information, aren’t you? I can see where you are a good choice for my small project, in any case. A lady, and an educated lady at that. I imagine everyone will be wondering why such a fine and refined creature as yourself would agree to leg shackle herself to such a rough character as myself.”
Eleanor looked at him quizzically for a moment, then dropped her gaze. What had just happened? What had he just said? How had he said it?…such a fine and refined creature as yourself.
No, it wasn’t actually the words he’d said, but the way he had said them. And he’d said them with this sudden lilt in his voice. Why had he suddenly reminded her of Paddy O’Rourke, from the village? He was English, not Irish. Everyone knew Jack Eastwood was English. Born in Sussex was what he’d told them. Yet Eleanor was sure she’d just heard a faint hint of Ireland in the cadence of his last statement.
It had been there, hadn’t it? Just for a moment?
She closed her eyes, calling herself silly. A life spent not trusting outsiders had made her skittish, and much too suspicious. Her papa trusted him. Court and the others trusted him. She hadn’t even thought about trust, fool that she was, too dazzled by Jack’s effect on her.
Well, that particular foolishness needed to come to a quick end. She was a Becket first, and female only second.
Much as she longed to see the Earl of Chelfham, much as she was determined to help Jack Eastwood uncover the identity of the leaders of the Red Men Gang who had threatened the Beckets’ very existence, she would remember to keep her faith in herself, and not in anyone else, even Jack Eastwood.
Eleanor’s life, that had seemed much too tame to her only a few days ago, was suddenly crowded with too many possibilities for disaster….
CHAPTER THREE
“ABOUT TIME IT WAS you lugged that great big simple self of yours back here, boyo. I was about to give you up.”
Jack turned, still in the act of sliding off his neck cloth, to see Cluny Shannon sprawled on the lone chair in his dressing room, a half-empty glass hanging from his fingers.
It was always a half-empty glass with Cluny, who never saw the sunshine without mentioning the clouds.
“My apologies, old friend. I didn’t notice a candle in the window. Were you pining for me?”
Cluny finished off his drink, obviously not the first or even the fourth of the evening, and carefully got to his feet, holding the glass in front of him as he advanced on Jack. “Thinking of where to lay off the silver, to tell you the truth. I could turn a pretty penny just for that behemoth you’ve got sitting on the table in the dining room. Now that I think on it, it’s a shame you made it back. Go away again, get yourself lost, and I’ll be a rich man.”
Jack unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged out of it, then began on the buttons of his shirt. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Cluny. Ten years ago, and you’d have had the silver before I was halfway to the coast. Have you sold off my clothes to the ragman, or do you think my dressing gown is still here somewhere?”
“I’m supposing you want me to fetch it for you now, don’t you?” Cluny put down the glass and navigated his way to one of the large clothespresses, extracting a deep burgundy banyan he then tossed in Jack’s general direction. “Here you go, boyo. Cover yourself up before I lose my supper.”
“Which you drank,” Jack said, snagging the dressing gown out of midair and sliding his bare arms into it, tying the sash at his waist. “I need you sober now, Cluny. We’ve got us a fine piece of trouble.”
The Irishman settled himself once more into the chair. “True enough. I saw her when you brought her in. A fine piece indeed, but what in the devil are we supposed to be doing with her?”
Jack shook his head at his friend’s deliberate misunderstanding and headed back into his bedchamber, Cluny on his heels. “That, my friend, is no piece, fine or otherwise. She’s Becket’s daughter, so if you want to keep your liver under wraps you’ll be very careful what you say, and what you do. Understand?”
“Not even by half I don’t,” Cluny said, pouring wine into two clean glasses. “Becket’s girl, you say? So you brought her up to town as a favor to the man?”
“No,” Jack said, accepting the glass Cluny offered, “I brought her up here as my wife.”
While Cluny coughed and spit, wine dribbling from his chin, Jack eased his length into a leather chair beside the small fire in the grate and waited, pleased to have said something that might have sobered up the fellow at least a little bit. “You all right, Cluny?”
“All right? You go and get yourself caught in parson’s mousetrap, and I don’t even know about it? I have no say in the thing?”
Jack took another sip of wine, trying to keep his features composed as the Irishman turned beet-red from his double chins to his thick shock of coarse, graying hair. “I suppose you wanted me to ask for your blessing, dear mother?”
“You could be doing worse than putting your faith in me. And I’m not your bleeding mother, even if you are a son of a bitch. What’s she like, this Becket woman?”
Jack considered the question. His first thought was to tell him Eleanor’s huge brown eyes were the most beautifully expressive feature in her small, gamin face. That she was fragile, yet seemed to possess a will of iron. That he felt like a raw, too tall, uncivilized golumpus whenever he was near her. That he felt uncharacteristically protective of her, and even more uncharacteristically attracted to her.
But he doubted Cluny needed to hear that.
“Quiet. Smart. Not necessarily trustworthy, but that’s all right because I don’t think she trusts me, either. Oh, and we’re not really married.”
Cluny looked at his wineglass, then carefully set it down. “Time to haul myself back up on the water wagon. What did you say? Are you bracketed or not?”
Jack waited for his just-arrived valet to put down the tray of meat and cheese and leave the room, heading for the dressing room to, most likely, cluck over the condition of his master’s wardrobe that was much the worse for wear after a week across the Channel.
“What’s that fellow’s name, again?” he asked Cluny, who’d settled his cheerless bulk into the facing chair.
“Frank,” Cluny said, popping a large piece of cheese into his mouth.
“No, not Frank. Francis?”
Cluny shrugged. “I like Frank better, a good, solid name. Why aren’t you married? Not that I want you to be, you understand, but why not?”
So Jack explained. For an hour, he explained, as Cluny interrupted almost constantly.
At the end of that hour Cluny had fallen off the water wagon—never an easy ride for him, even in the best of times—and poured himself another drink. “Are you sure that cousin of yours is worth all this skulduggery? I always thought you didn’t like the man above half.”
“It’s
